Something moves through me, like water arriving before I am ready and leaving before I have finished with it,
Something moves through me, when I hold on too long, it grows stagnant and loses the life that made it worth keeping,
Something moves through me, each time I send my work into the world, before I can mourn what has left, something new begins to take shape all over again,
Something moves through me, I still wonder whether I truly trust what comes next or have simply learned to tell myself that I should trust,
Something moves through me, perhaps faith begins when I learn to open my hands and let it go…
I have hoarded ideas, keeping them in drawers for a moment worthy enough to share them, but a moment that never seemed to arrive,
I have hoarded ideas, afraid that sharing them too soon, in the wrong place or at the wrong time, would somehow disappear them,
I have hoarded ideas, watching them grow stale as I guarded them more carefully than I ever brought them to life,
I have hoarded ideas, I keep returning to one question — was I protecting what I had created, or protecting myself from being seen,
I have hoarded ideas, until the space for new things grew smaller with every choice to keep what was never meant to stay…
The fear of running out, told me every idea was rare and irreplaceable, as though one day I might reach the bottom of everything I had to give,
The fear of running out, made every piece of work feel like it might be the last good thing I would ever create,
The fear of running out, kept telling me to wait a little longer, make one more change, release nothing until it felt perfect,
The fear of running out, still follows me even as I write this — why do I keep fearing a moment I have already learned to recognize,
The fear of running out, was a story I learned from scarcity and carried for so long that I mistook it for my own truth…
When I release a thing, I leave behind the version of myself that was still becoming through the act of making it,
When I release a thing, I feel an emptiness before the next idea takes shape, a quiet space I cannot force to fill itself,
When I release a thing, I must learn again to trust the silence between what has ended and what has yet to begin,
When I release a thing, I still wonder whether I am trusting the flow of life or simply learning to live without control,
When I release a thing, I practice the one discipline that keeps me creating — to make with an open heart and let go with open hands…
Watchwords
It loses the thing that made it worth having,
Guarding more than I was using,
Was I protecting the idea, or protecting myself from being seen,
A story I borrowed from scarcity and forgot to return,
The one discipline that makes me a maker — the open hand,
Here is Tikatarot, who dares you to answer the question, “Who am I?”..
As and will always be reminding you to dream: